


ad infinitum

by SapphireSue



Series: fucked up El Fili fan fiction [Simosilio] [3]
Category: El Filibusterismo, Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireSue/pseuds/SapphireSue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-sidedness fades when it bounces off a wall and hits the other person, hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ad infinitum

Basilio lies down. He’s smiling – he’s always smiling – running his fingers along the exposed skin of Simoun’s shoulders down to his arms, until fingers reach fingers and he interlocks them together. He always does that, despite the older man’s hisses of protests. Nothing else is done to stop him after that, so he keeps them interlocked.

 

He tells Simoun of their similarities: “We both lost the most precious people in our lives, and our lovers suffered before leaving once and for all.”

 

There’s always a reply – Simoun’s voice low and warm against his neck, irritation heavily clouded by arousal, teeth grazing and biting at the flesh.

 

“Shut up, you little- _shut up_ ,” and picks up his pace, nails digging into Basilio’s hips and leaving reddish crescent marks.

 

Basilio never does shut up but he stays silent for a while because he knows the man is going to order him to let his voice out again in a moment. It’s an easy routine – all this – and it only took him three nights to figure out how everything’s going to be played out. He knew from that night on, that this is a thing between them now. It differs from their other secrets. A different conversation where hardly a word is exchanged and they rely more on actions. Here Simoun vents out his anger towards the world on Basilio, showing his brute strength whenever he pins the younger man against the wall, whenever he throws him down on the bed.

 

He’s not always angry when they do this, though. He gets stressed about something sometimes. He gets bored. Basilio, on the other hand, is needy, pliant, and always unbelievably available. It’s like he never had plans, never anything marked on the calendar, no important gathering or even a fiesta to attend.

 

Simoun’s only explanation to that is the fact that Basilio is still a boy, no matter how much or what he has gone through. It irritates him sometimes, because the younger man should not be looking up at him with adoring doe eyes. He should be hardened by harsh years and fighting back when his back is against the wall, wrists pinned above his head and Simoun’s knee wedged between his legs.

 

“Oh god, I love-” He starts to say, but Simoun releases one hand from his hips and covers his mouth before he finishes his sentence. Simoun is always like that, covering his mouth, preventing him from speaking any further like he’s spouting poison. He should know by now what words not to say and what words pleases the man, but he can’t help that he wants to voice it out. He should know by now that Simoun will never let him get attached. Simoun refuses this to blossom into something more.

 

Basilio refuses to shut up for once in his life. He pries Simoun’s hand away from his mouth and leans into the man, capturing his lips in a frenzied kiss, legs tightening around hips, insides clenching –

 

“ _I love you_ ,” Basilio whispers against the older man’s lips as their foreheads touch.

 

Simoun’s hips stutter for a second but continue his pace, gradually becoming faster and harsher. His thoughts collapse altogether and scatter everywhere. He’s angry and irritated. He doesn’t want it but his mind is screaming for it.

 

“You don’t- you don’t know what you’re saying,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re a _kid_.”

 

He spits it out like a curse, repeats it like a mantra: _You’re a kid, you’re a kid –_

 

He hates this _kid_. He hates how soft and smooth the _kid_ is all over, every inch of skin and every ounce of emotion. He hates the passion firing up in the _kid’s_ eyes and the utter adoration in them, all reserved for him. He hates how he’s holding onto the _kid_ for dear life, hates how this _kid_ can do things to him.

 

He promises to himself when this is over, he’ll get up and never come back.

 

At midnight, he finds himself lying on the bed with his eyes on the ceiling, listening to the kid’s light snoring, warm breath ghosting against Simoun’s bare chest.

 

He stays.


End file.
